


Yours Ever, Sherlock

by Coffee_Flavored_Kisses



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-03
Updated: 2013-12-03
Packaged: 2018-01-03 09:25:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,861
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1068808
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Coffee_Flavored_Kisses/pseuds/Coffee_Flavored_Kisses
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>I made a prompt on Tumblr, and two beautiful people filled it for me. I'm afraid theirs were far better than mine, but I filled my own prompt anyway, because when you can't even function due to your overwhelming feelings, it's a good idea to get it out of your system.<br/>John discovers a file of love letters Sherlock has written to him without the intention of John ever seeing them.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Yours Ever, Sherlock

“Where did you say it was?”  
Sherlock sighed before yelling his response to John, who was in the next room. “Third box from the top, the one on the left. And don’t mess up the order! I’ll know if you do!”  
“I won’t, I won’t…” John replied, wiping his brow as he sifted through the piles of file boxes in Sherlock’s bedroom. “How could you even tell the difference?” he then said quietly to himself. “All these boxes are identical!” But he never really questioned Sherlock. If the detective said he would know, he would know.  
Finally, John had found the box he had been looking for. Third box down, the one on the right. This would be the file full of past clients’ contact information. Lestrade had been trying to track one down for questioning, and only Sherlock knew the old client’s whereabouts. John lifted the lid and began to fumble through the papers. Nothing looked like addresses and telephone numbers. These were letters. Letters in Sherlock’s handwriting.  
John wasn’t the type to be too curious about Sherlock’s business, but it was so unusual to think that there was anyone Sherlock wrote to, that John had to look. He knew he might regret it, but he took the chance he couldn’t avoid. Maybe they would provide a laugh, even! After all, god knows Sherlock had read John’s poetry to his girlfriends, had searched John’s private photographs, had even interrupted dates… this wouldn’t be too intrus –  
Oh god.  
“ _My Dear Watson…_ ”  
John had only read those three words, then set the letter back in the box. There had to be thirty, forty letters at least! And were they all addressed to him? Yes. Yes, it certainly seemed so.  
John peeked carefully back out and noticed Sherlock was still fixed on his microscope, and John knew he could be there for hours at a time without even noticing (or caring?) how much time had passed. John had time to read more…  
… But should he?  
After all, the letters were addressed to him. And after all, Sherlock and he kept nothing from each other. And after all, John was too damn curious and too damn scared not to.  
 _My Dear Watson,_  
 _We have begun something that I am afraid can never cease. I feel a strange sort of notion, something akin to sentiment, I suspect._  
 _It has only been three days since you came to live here; still, I cannot seem to remember how I ever lived before I lived with you._  
 _Potential flatmates should know the worst about each other, right? I told you all the wrong things about myself that day. My worst habit is not excessive violin playing or silence for days on end. Not even close. I knew I was dangerous for you, but I never believed you would ever have to find that out. I never expected to need you to kill a man for me._  
 _For the record, I am grateful that you did, notwithstanding._  
 _Sherlock_  
John placed the letter back at the rear of the box where it had been, and he just stared at the rest of them, breathing hard, peeking back out occasionally to be sure Sherlock wouldn’t suspect anything. John usually hated it when Sherlock said he was an idiot, but now he hoped more than ever that Sherlock would think he was just long enough to let him take his time supposedly looking for the other file. John remembered Sherlock must have said it was the third box down, the one to the left.  
Oh well.  
John’s curiosity got the best of him, and he reached for the next letter in the row.  
 _My Dear Watson,_  
 _Your companionship is unmatched! Today you actually sat in my miserable presence for six hours and twelve minutes and listened to me. I must have said such boring things for you. I must have been talking about things you could never possibly begin to try to understand. I know that your strange little mind could not easily to contain the thoughts I spewed, yet you listened._  
 _Thank you, John. Thank you from the deepest part of me. You are an invaluable asset._  
 _Your friend, Sherlock_  
John grimaced a little, then smiled, then grimaced again. Sherlock’s accidental insults were old hat now, but it still stung a bit to see them before him on paper. Though, John noticed, that letter was from only two months after they’d met. Perhaps Sherlock’s opinion of John had changed since then.  
John read on.  
 _My Dear Watson,_  
 _To hold your hand, to run through the streets with you tonight was one of the greatest thrills I have ever experienced. I sit now in Bart’s morgue awaiting your arrival, though I know you will still be gone for some time. I would say these words out loud, but Molly is here and you know how she is about prying._  
 _John, I know you’ll never actually read this note, but I think I will feel infinitely better putting these words to paper._  
 _I will leave you soon, John. I may not see you for a very long time. I have a plan, but you will not see it. I’m afraid, my good friend, that you will believe me to be dead. I’m sorry, John. I am so very sorry._  
 _But I swear to you on my life that you will see me again. A life without you is no life at all._  
 _Yours ever, Sherlock_  
That letter was the hardest yet for John to put back. Since the night some three years before that Sherlock had written those words, John had forgiven Sherlock. In fact, after he had seen what Sherlock’s motives were, he almost apologized himself! But this letter brought it all back. It still didn’t seem normal to see Sherlock showing his feelings this way, but John shook it off.  
And then a sudden realization hit him. These other letters in this box, as many as there were, were mostly written while the two were apart. When John realized this, he became more determined than ever to read on.  
 _My Dear Watson,_  
 _Had I known how little time we had, I would have said these things sooner._  
 _Did I not tell you from the very day we met that you would invade my dreams for an eternity? Did I not know?_  
 _Your eyes have always had the ability to hold me as no hands ever could._  
 _You have always been, remain still, and shall forever be the very best thing to happen to my most miserable life. To say that I hope to be that same to you would be most pretentious of me, so I shall only hope that I have at some point made you happy, even for a moment._ _Fourteen months have come and gone since I have seen your face, John, and I miss it. I miss all of you._  
 _I cry most night because I wait for you to wipe my tears._  
 _You called me names, I did the same, and all the while I tried to find the perfect way to say I love you._  
 _We are the only two who have ever been born with the sole purpose of loving the other. I know this more surely than I know the lines in my hands or the tone in your voice._  
 _I am in pain, in absolute torment. I know that I have done this to myself, but many nights I find myself waking up in sweat, yelling your name, reaching for you, wiping tears that fall with the realization that you are not there._  
 _Soon, John. Soon I will see you again. My heart is ready, but my body aches. I know you will not know how to react, and I understand. Do not reject me, John. Please. I pray that you will hold me, though I know you well enough to believe you will choose a more abrasive greeting._  
 _I will see you tomorrow, dearest John. I will see you, but you will not see me. Not yet._  
These lines were all from different letters, but the signature was always the same:  
 _Yours Ever, Sherlock_  
Finally John came to the last few letters. Hurrying now, he passed the rest and went for the most recent. It had been written just three days before.  
 _My Dear Watson,_  
 _I fell once for you._  
 _It seems I have fallen again. Both falls were tragic. This one may just kill me._  
 _You are all I have ever needed, and I never even knew I needed you until we met. But it took me exactly one day – one – to see that I would never spend a day without you. You are all I ever need, all I want, all my life, and all my days. For the first time, I find it difficult to articulate the words that fit the moment._  
 _To put it into words you use, John, I love you. I love you as deeply as my heart can fathom, and then some._  
 _You may choose another love over mine, an easier love to reciprocate. You may choose a woman, as that has seemed to be the type your heart has chosen. Admittedly, I do not know very much about romance, John. But I know love, for I have known you._  
 _You are the one, the only one. You are everything. One day I will tell you, but for now this will have to do. I suppose I am borrowing a chapter from your therapist’s book by writing down my feelings. The only reason I do is that I know you will never see. If you saw this part of me, it pains me to think how you would react. This was never meant to happen, but it has. I would be sorry, but the love I have for you has existed too long to be excused by my remorse._  
 _I’m not sorry I love you. I’m just sorry I am too weak to say it._  
 _Yours Ever, Sherlock._  
John held on to the letter, his hands trembling violently as, ironically, they had done before he’d met his friend. His throat was dry, his face was wet, his lips were not quite sure what to do.  
“Have you found it, John?”  
John awoke from his trance. “Yes… uh… erm… one minute!” John shoved the letter back in as neatly as he could, replaced it with the correct box, and wiped his face before returning to the detective. Both were quiet for the rest of the evening, but for very different reason.  
Days passed, and not one went by without John checking the box. He would read something new that he hadn’t read before, read over his favorite ones, delicately fold the papers as Sherlock had done. In the time between, John thought. A lot.  
Sherlock was not just his flatmate, this much he knew. He was a friend, but never a friend like he had known before. He was someone who held a place, a permanent place, in John’s heart. Sherlock was nothing like the women John had dated, and not just because of gender. He was highly intellectual – a genius! He was interesting, unique, knew everything about everything and was never boring.  
But did John love him?  
Of course he did. He had put his life on the line countless times for Sherlock. And he would do it countless times again.  
But did he love him the same way Sherlock loved him?  
This is where John was confused. He had found himself at times looking at Sherlock in one of his pensive moments, searching the detective’s face – studying it, studying him. He had even dreamed of the detective, dreamed of spending the rest of his life with him, growing old with him.  
Perhaps it wasn’t romance, but it was love, commitment, and passion.  
But without a physical attraction, could John ever consider a deeper relationship with Sherlock? Well, to be honest, he found Sherlock incredibly attractive. But he had never looked at a man in that light, never considered touching a man that way, loving one that way, skin-on-skin, lips-on-lips, hand-in-hand for the rest of time. But now he was.  
After only a week, John found an opportunity to check the file box again while Sherlock was away on a case. He took it down as gently as ever, and when he opened it, he found himself smiling uncontrollably at the sight of a new letter, crisp and white, right there in the front of the row.  
He tried to be dramatic and slow in the way he pulled it out, but his hands had a different idea.  
 _My Dear Watson,_  
 _Last night I dreamt of you again._  
 _I dreamt of the warmth of you against my skin. I dreamt of the pull of your fingers on my clothes, undressing me in a vulgar manner, the clatter of your teeth as you whisper vile things in my ear. I dreamt of your legs entwined with mine, your chest heaving over my own, your eyes burning through me, your thoughts loudly ringing as you make your intentions clear._  
 _I dream that you hold me beside the fire, kissing me tenderly as I imagine you do. Tell me all your secret thoughts, John. Tell me that you find me beautiful, that I am brilliant, amazing, fantastic. Tell me, because those words never get old._  
 _I dreamt we made love. I dream it all the time, but last night was different somehow._  
 _It hurts me to feel these things for you and to know you’ll never feel the same._  
 _Yours Ever, Sherlock_  
John must have read the letter three more times before he decided that he had to talk to Sherlock. He knew he would never look at him the same way again. He knew by the warmth in his stomach and the tightening in his pants that physical attraction would not be a problem.  
But he could never tell Sherlock about this! He had looked through something private, so private that Sherlock had said himself several times that he would never show John. John, who knew everything about his friend.  
No. He couldn’t talk to Sherlock about it face-to-face.  
He knew what to do.  
Days turned to weeks, and weeks to months. John had not forgotten the box, of course, but for his friend’s sake, he hadn’t touched it, nor had he discussed it with Sherlock.  
“I’m going to be in Dublin tomorrow,” John announced over tea. “It’ll be a few days. Harry’s working things out with Clara, and she’s asked me along for moral support.”  
“Fine,” Sherlock said simply, abruptly.  
John looked at the other man as he sat there reading his paper. Oh, god, he was teasing John more than he could know. “I’ll see you on Thursday.”  
Sherlock didn’t respond, and John retired for the night.  
He had just tucked himself in, turned out the lights, and almost slipped into his sleep when the detective came through his door in a mad fit of sorts.  
“What?” John asked as his eyes locked with Sherlock’s.  
He was silent. In his hand, he held a letter.  
“Say it, Sherlock.”  
“Say what?”  
“Whatever it was you came up here to say.”  
Sherlock shook his head a bit in surprise. “You… you found them…”  
John nodded.  
“And you read them… all?”  
“Yes.”  
“And you wrote me this one…” Sherlock held up the letter in his hand. “And it took me two months… I wish I had… I should have seen this sooner.”  
“I had to wait until you were going to write back.”  
Sherlock approached the bed and sat beside his friend. “‘ _Dearest Sherlock, I love you incredibly, immeasurable, indefinitely. Love, John._ ’”  
John smiled and sat up to be beside Sherlock. “You opened the box tonight. That means you were going to write me another letter.”  
“I never meant for you to see these,” Sherlock whispered as he turned to look in the man’s eyes. “I thought… it would be secret.”  
“It very nearly was,” John said. “But I don’t regret finding your words. Do you?”  
Sherlock shook his head.  
“And what were you going to write to me tonight, my Sherlock?”  
Sherlock blushed and bowed his head. “I can’t say…”  
“You can,” John said, encouraging his face to look back up. “It’s just me. You can tell me anything.”  
“I just… I…”  
John nodded. “Go on.”  
“I wanted to say that I… I just… I don’t…”  
“Dictate your letter to me, Sherlock.”  
Sherlock’s brows wrinkled for a moment before he closed his eyes and took a breath. “My Dear Watson,” he started. “I wish you wouldn’t go away. I’ll miss you terribly. I’ll miss your conversation, your presence, your scent, all the frivolous things I never pretended to care about until now. I need you, and I mustn’t mmmmm…”  
Sherlock’s words were cut short as he felt a gentle pressure on his lips, and upon opening his eyes, discovered John against him. They were kissing, and Sherlock reciprocated, his lips holding John’s, loving them, loving him.  
“Sealed with a kiss,” John whispered.  
“Yours Ever,” Sherlock replied.

**Author's Note:**

> Complete honesty? This one is much better than mine: http://archiveofourown.org/works/1068436


End file.
